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About Marseille

Last week, my buddy Dave—dumb as a stump—tried it. Said it was “spiritual,” like he’s some guru now. I told him, “You’re an idiot, Dave.” He’s lyin’ there, candles flickerin’, some chick whisperin’ about “energy flow”—I’d gag if I wasn’t so damn annoyed. “What am I doing here?” Bob Harris’d say, stuck in that weird hotel bar. That’s me, watchin’ Dave blab about his “release.” Release? From what, sanity? I hate everything.

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Un week-end puissant et transformateur pour explorer l’alliance du Féminin et du Masculin en soi, en relation avec l’autre et avec le Vivant. Ouvert à toustes: femmes, hommes, non-binaires, .

First off, the streets—oh dear, the streets. There’s Rue de la République, man, where every shop has its own story, and hey, the fresh battles of opinions spill right onto the pavement. I sometimes take my breaks strolling down Rue Charles de Gaulle, admiring the little quirks on the facades. The architecture? Pretty, pretty good—if you ask me. It’s not New York, but hell, it’s got personality.

Samoan rugby player Kelly Meafua dies after jumping from bridge in France